


When You're Gone

by Verelia



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/F, Gen, and it deserves to be seen and eventually finished!, cuz i haven't written in so long and this has been sitting, it's a wip honestly i just wanted to post something, prompt 2: glory/grief
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:28:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23691619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verelia/pseuds/Verelia
Summary: At last, Catherine would do what any Faerghus knight could only dream of. She would slaughter droves of people in a madwoman’s name, as she had for so long. She would weather every blow that came her way until she couldn’t lift her blade or bite or kick or scream. She would die in a sea of frozen corpses until the carrion birds came to pick her bones clean, same as any soldier, no matter the gold in her armor or the crest in her blood or the name of the person who’d sent her to an early grave.And, if she had any say in it, Cyril would not.
Relationships: Catherine & Cyril, Catherine/Shamir Nevrand
Comments: 9
Kudos: 23
Collections: Cathmir Week 2020





	1. Snowy Heart

From the relative safety of Faerghus' snowy heart, it was easy at first to dismiss rumors of the Ashen Demon's return. 

But loss after loss finally convinced Lady Rhea--

\--No, Catherine reminded herself. She was Saint Seiros now. Or perhaps she had always been. 

Either way, Catherine's charge finally seemed to accept the truth behind the empire's relentless advance. 

Her cool disbelief had turned quickly to scorching fury, lethal to any who came too close or dared to question that divine authority. Of her inner circle, the archbishop had cast down at least half by her own hand. 

Sedition. Heresy. Insubordination. Treason. Name a reason, and Catherine could recall some church official who had disappeared for it. 

Sometimes, it had been by her own hand. 

The emperor made quick work of rest. Some reports said Seteth and Flayn had died brutally on the cobblestones of Garreg Mach, while others said they narrowly escaped by the grace of the Demon's mercy. Catherine hoped for the latter, but as the void of their absence yet remained, she could only assume the worst. 

As much as she missed them--and by the goddess, she hadn't realized how much she would--it was a different loss that pained her now. 

Her partner. The only one she would ever have. 

Shamir. 

Sometimes, she'd forget herself and turn around with a joke on her lips, only to bite her tongue when she remembered there were only ghosts around to hear. 

Her heart ached like an arrow was buried there, in a way Catherine hadn't realized was possible. It felt like her heart shouldn't have been able to beat at all. 

Sometimes, when things got desperate, on her third or fourth day in a row without rest, she'd think--

_ \--you know how she likes to sneak up on people. Maybe she's just biding her time. Just a little longer. When has she let you down before? _

But days turned to weeks turned to months--two, in fact--and now her only hope was that Shamir's death had been quicker than anything she saw in her nightmares. 

It seemed that Lady Rhea had learned her lesson, finally--now she kept her two remaining confidants at her side for fear of losing them. 

It left a bitter taste in Catherine's mouth. The archbishop had barely noticed--

_ No news of Shamir, either?  _

She hadn't even looked up from the report in her hands. 

_ I expected better of her. Perhaps you didn't need a partner after all.  _

Catherine had bit her tongue, and tasted blood.

King Dimitri had gone to see her later that day, vowing to take revenge for Shamir as well. Catherine couldn't remember what she'd said in return. She couldn’t stop thinking that “revenge” meant it was already far too late.

At the monastery, she had always leapt at the chance to speak to Lady Rhea. Now she more often flinched. 

But she would endure it. It wouldn’t be much longer now, anyway.


	2. Alone

"You all right?" 

"Sure," Cyril lied, stark white breath curling around the silent gulf between them. "It's real cold up here, though. More than I expected."

"Didn't someone give you a--ugh, never mind." 

Obviously the answer was no. His breastplate hadn’t even been covered with leather. The colder this winter got, the more Church soldiers they lost. Amputations, sickness, exhaustion… if not for the Kingdom’s reinforcements and hospitality, the cold might have defeated them before Edelgard got the chance. A month ago, Catherine would have known who to blame, and she’d have been working day and night to fix it, but it wouldn’t matter for much longer. 

She stood and closed the distance between them, her boots echoing loudly on the stone, and unfastened the thick fur cape at her shoulders. It was white as death and softer than she was used to. Perfect for the Kingdom knight that she would never be. 

“It’s only going to get colder, trust me.” She held the cloak out to Cyril, resisting the temptation to drape it over his shoulders like a blanket. “I’ll help you reinforce your armor too.” 

He eyed the cloak dubiously, then turned his gaze to Catherine.

"What about you?" 

Of course. He never could just look out for himself, could he? 

"Me?” she laughed mirthlessly. “I’m fine, I’ve got extra. And anyway--these are my old stomping grounds, Cyril. If you ask me, it never snowed enough at the monastery." 

In the relative safety of Fhirdiad's familiar walls, she couldn't help but recall days long past. Snowball fights at the training grounds, drinking warm tea with her parents after hours of playing in the snow, skating across a frozen pond. She supposed that, had it ever snowed more than a mere dusting back at Garreg Mach, much of the work to clear it would have fallen to Cyril. 

She slumped back into her chair with that sobering thought.

How much colder was it, up in the clouds, on a wyvern’s back?

There was nothing for a while but the crackling fire before them and the occasional creak of their hard, wooden chairs. A few days ago, they’d pulled two of them up close to the hearth, away from the grand table with a dozen empty places. It was hard to have an officers’ meeting with only two left. 

With Shamir, the three of them never seemed to run out of something to do or talk about. Now, it seemed silence was keen to fill the void she left. But silence in Cyril’s familiar presence was far better than sitting alone, wondering where he was, wondering if their  _ saintly protector _ would call him a traitor next. Catherine would sooner bury Thunderbrand in her own heart than turn it against him. She wasn’t sure of very much these days, but she was sure of that.

The king was probably with Lady Seiros now, if she let anyone in at all. Catherine had never felt such relief at being ignored. And though Cyril never dared to say it, she was sure he felt the same. 

Goddess, she couldn’t wait for this to be over. Even if it meant the end of her life--what did she have to live for, anyway?

_ Nothing _ , she thought, grasping desperately at the memory of Shamir’s face. How could something so precious slip away from her?

But there was something to live for. Someone. 

There was blood enough on Catherine’s conscience to drown her, and then some. Plenty of people wanted her dead, and they ought to. She hoped Edelgard was the monster they said she was, if only so her death would be as gruesome as she deserved. With any luck, it would happen long before she met any former students on the field.

At last, Catherine would do what any Faerghus knight could only dream of. She would slaughter droves of people in a madwoman’s name, as she had for so long. She would weather every blow that came her way until she couldn’t lift her blade or bite or kick or scream. She would die in a sea of frozen corpses until the carrion birds came to pick her bones clean, same as any soldier, no matter the gold in her armor or the crest in her blood or the name of the person who’d sent her to an early grave. 

And, if she had any say in it, Cyril would not. 

"Cyril. Can I ask you something?” 

“Yeah, of course.” He didn’t even hesitate--of course he didn’t--but she could hear in his voice how tired he was. Could see it in his eyes. She probably looked just as ragged.

He was too young for this. She had been too, at his age, and she wished someone had told her that.

Neither of them would like what she was about to say. “We’re as well-prepared as we can be. But things might still go awry. Probably will, if we’re being honest.”

He watched her, hunched over in his seat, his hands holding the cloak around him. “I’m ready for whatever happens. You have my word on that.”

Catherine sighed and watched the air curl up in pale white tendrils ahead of her. She had no doubt, that was for sure--he knew the odds and was as ready to die tomorrow as he had been at the advent of all this. All for Lady Rhea. Just as she had been. 

“I know you are. But if the emperor gets here, and things go to shit… I want you to leave. Can you do that for me?”

He stared at her, openmouthed, as if waiting for a punchline that would never come.

“You've got that dragon, just… Fly away, as far as you can go. Anywhere but here.”

"What? You think I should just… run away?” At some point in these five, long years, he’d grown into a man. He looked small now under that fluffy cloak, but she’d clock anyone who questioned his resolve. And he knew that. This wasn't a question of courage at all. 

“I don't have anywhere to go, anyway," he continued, his tone turning somber. "Better to fight til my last than live for nothing. I’ll never go back to that.” Those words made Catherine’s heart ache. He sounded like her, back then. Though she’d never know the sort of pain he knew. Lady Cassandra grew up in comfort and luxury; the ghosts that hounded her now were all of Catherine’s own making. But to think of death as devotion--she wouldn’t let him be misled. ”And I don't wanna live in a world without Lady Rhea."

“You think I  _ do _ ?” Her voice cracked with the question. “But we’re already there, aren’t we?” 

Cyril didn’t look at her. 

The woman who plucked him from a life of misery, who dragged Catherine back from death’s door with her own blood. It felt like poison now, running cold in her veins. Maybe it was. Maybe it would kill her. 

How grateful she would be.

“I haven't seen Lady Rhea in awhile. Have you?" She swallowed thickly, her hands shaking, certainly not from the cold. It was a dangerous truth to speak aloud, but she would do it--she had to, for him, and for the Lady Rhea they had known. "I know how you feel--we love her for the same reasons. Her kindness, her compassion, the way she helped us both when we were nothing and--" 

She took a shaky breath, blinking back tears that very well might have frozen on her cheeks. 

“The war’s going to end here, with or without her," she managed to choke out through the bile rising in her throat. "Neither one of them is going to back down. Even… No,  _ especially  _ if Lady Rhea is gone… the world will need people like you in it. You're just as kind as her, and I don't know anyone who works half as hard. And… Shamir taught plenty of people over the years, but there's a reason you were the only apprentice she ever took."

It was hard to even speak her name. She probably shouldn’t have. But the words tumbled out before she could think to stop. Shamir used to say she was horribly impulsive.

"You don't know what you're talking about, Catherine." He suddenly stood up; for once she had to look up at him. She had to look up to meet those fiery, amber eyes, and see the rage and the fear and the sorrow that she'd been holding in, staring back at her. "I thought you were a knight-- _ her _ knight! How could you of all people say something like--" 

"I've lived almost twice as long as you, Cyril. I've seen too many people die for knighthood or honor or chivalry. It’s a shit reason to die.” His eyes widened at her frank dismissal of everything she should have stood for. He deserved to know the truth, or what she thought of it. “Most reasons are shit reasons to die. And your death isn’t going to help Lady Rhea.”

_ Or Shamir _ , she added silently. Shamir would’ve told him to run. She had always been so shocked that Catherine valued her own life over her duty. 

“I’m not afraid of it.” The fire in his eyes burned lower now, but it was still more than bright enough. He stood tall despite the bitter cold and exhaustion she knew he felt. “I haven’t been for awhile now. But I’m not gonna leave her when she needs us most. Forget knights, what kind of person does that? After what she’s done for us? And you've seen what happens to deserters.”

"Forget seeing, I've done it. On her orders.” Cyril knew, he had to have known, but it still made him frown, made him pause for just a moment. “If we win--and I live to see it--I’ll take the blame. If she wants my head on a pike, so be it."

“So, what, it’s okay if  _ you _ die? Then it’ll have a point?” 

She thought of Cristophe, pleading as she dragged him out of his room. The storm covered their tracks, the thunder drowning out his useless pleas. By the end of it he was shivering and covered in mud, from his bare feet to silver hair. By the goddess, she’d never been so angry in her life. Her dearest friend in the whole damned world, and a traitor to everything she stood for, to the woman she’d sworn her life to.

_ Please, Cass. Rhea’s not who you think she is. _

_ That’s Lady Rhea to you. _

Yet she’d breathed a sigh of relief when Rhea told her she wouldn’t be responsible for the execution. She had more than proven her loyalty by dragging him to his grave.

She’d expected a hanging. But a headsman’s block stood where the gallows would have been. She forced herself to watch. It had taken four swings. She stood by Lady Rhea, close enough to see the fear in his eyes, to watch his body twitch when the axe cleft his head from his shoulders.

_ Sometimes our foes wear the faces of our friends, Cassandra.  _ She’d so seldom heard her real name. On Rhea’s lips, it sent a chill down her spine--from fear, or something else, she didn’t know. If she hadn’t become Catherine, Cristophe’s fate would have been her own. Yet Rhea held her all the same, ran a hand through her messy hair and dried the tears shed for a traitor.  _ There is no shame in being misled, so long as we correct our mistakes. _

The Empire’s forces had been painting every inch of Fodlan with Adrestian red. Fhirdiad could withstand a siege, it could survive the harshest winter, but Saint Seiros wanted blood. And until Edelgard and her Demon fell, that thirst would not be slaked. 

“I don’t want to die. But I’ve got a lot to answer for, Cyril. It--”

“Then add being a hypocrite to the list! That’s the same damn thing. Shamir wouldn’t want you to throw your life away, either, and you know it!”

Her name made Catherine grimace; she knew it was true. She wouldn’t have had this problem if Shamir was still here. Even after Lady Rhea had changed, somehow, with her and Cyril, it always felt like there’d be a world worth living in when this was done. 

“Is your death gonna help the dead?” Cyril asked, his arms folded. A moment passed before she realized he was actually waiting for an answer.

“Obviously not.” She felt like a scolded child.

“Right. So you’re just too scared to live with the guilt. If you die, it’ll help you, and no one else. Not me, not Lady Rhea, not the dead you’re so broken up about.”

He was so blunt. Just like Shamir. She really was the perfect teacher for him. Blunt, and so frustratingly right about the things she didn’t want to admit. 

“Yeah, I guess so. Lady Rhea’s gone, Shamir’s gone, and I’m dead to everyone I’ve ever known or cared about but you. And you want to throw yourself into a fire that started when you were too damn young to have any part in putting it out.”

Cyril sank back into his chair with a sigh, holding his knees to his chest. 

“I don’t know all the things you’ve had to do--that she ordered you to do. It sounds awful, and I’m sure it was.” He turned his chair to face hers more. ”I think I understand, a little bit. My work didn’t used to have a body count, and I liked it better that way.” Cyril looked down at his hands, calloused from years of labor and half a decade of war. “But what’s all this fighting been for if I just run away? What have you been fighting for if you just lay down and die?”

“I don’t know, Cyril,” she said in a quiet, weak voice. She stared into the fire, digging her nails into the palms of her trembling hands. It might have hurt if the cold hadn’t rendered them numb. “I was fighting for her. And now I’m not sure she’s here anymore. If it’s her, if this is who she truly is, then I’ve spent half my life devoted to...” She shook her head. What was she now? A monster? A tyrant? “I don’t know. Not the woman I thought she was. And if it’s not her, then what the hell am I doing?” She buried her face in her hands, digging her nails in.

“I… I’m not sure either.” He turned toward the fire too, his voice barely above a whisper. She looked at him briefly, and thought she saw a tear on his cheek. “But how could it be anyone else? Even if she’s changed, don’t we owe it to her to stand by her anyway?”

“If I knew, I’d tell you. Goddess, I wish I knew.”

They sat in silence again. It could have been minutes, or hours. She only stirred when the fire started dying.

“Catherine.”

She was kneeling down, putting more wood into the flames with icy fingers, coaxing warmth out of embers, when Cyril knelt down beside her to help. His teeth were chattering.

“I’ll fly away,” he said suddenly as they watched the fire grow. “If the emperor gets here, and the fighting gets bad, and I don’t think there’s anything I can do to help--if it really is that hopeless--then I’ll go.” In his voice was the same determination she’d heard when he donned ill-fitting armor and flew to Lady Rhea’s side the day the monastery fell. Fifteen years old, defending the Archbishop with his life. How could she have let him?

“Thank you, Cyril.” She felt tears pricking at her eyes, and more relief than she’d had in months. “I know you’ll--”

He bent forward, and wrapped his arms around her, covering the both of them with the cloak. She felt the stubble on his cheek as he hugged her more tightly than anyone ever had, and she clung to him with the same desperation. Her tears fell freely down her cheeks, and she didn’t dare speak, because it would surely have come out as a sob, and shedding tears was bad enough as far as Catherine was concerned.

“If I’m all you have left, you’re all I have left too,” Cyril said between sniffles. “So--so if that happens, you’re coming with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im crying, catherine's crying, cyril's crying. shamir's also probably crying somewhere. ;D

**Author's Note:**

> I'll finish this and it'll go on for some time, and it actually will not be as super depressing as it seems right now, I swear. Its title in my docs is "cyril has two moms" lol. Anyway thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed.


End file.
